


One Friday at a Time

by out_there



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 16:47:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16453676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: One Friday night at a time, Greg thinks. They'll get there one Friday night at a time.





	One Friday at a Time

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Tehomet for betaing. Based on the tumblr prompts: 
> 
> Your dialogue: "Listen... you and me..."
> 
> The circumstances...  
> in the car  
> after work on a Friday

It's Friday and there's a sleek black Jaguar waiting outside NSY -- parked illegally, Greg can't help noticing. Clearly, Mycroft Holmes believes himself above petty concerns like parking restrictions.

Not that Greg cares too much. Thankfully, Traffic isn't his division.

Mycroft's distracted assistant is standing in front of the car, typing furiously on her phone. Greg still doesn't know her name. Mycroft had introduced her as his assistant and she's never offered a name, so Greg thinks it's probably better not to ask. 

“Hey. Is the car for me?”

She looks up for a moment, something frighteningly sharp in that round pretty face. “Yes,” she says and then turns back to her phone. She's as sleek as the car behind her, polished in a way that makes Greg assume an upper-middle-class background. But maybe that's what he's meant to assume.

“Okay, then,” Greg says, getting in the car. Not the first time Mycroft's sent a car for him, but Greg usually has to ask first. Usually, it also includes Mycroft's company in the back seat but the car is empty.

Instead of driving around Whitehall to collect Mycroft from his office or deposit Greg in the waiting room of the Diogenes, they drive south across the river, heading away from the city to Greg's flat. Not where Greg normally spends Friday nights these days.

“He's indisposed.”

When Greg looks over, she's typing into her phone. “Too busy to pick up a phone?”

“Yes,” she says, either an excellent liar or telling the absolute truth. Greg can't pick it when it comes to her.

***

Mycroft does call to apologize, but that's three days later. Three days of no contact other than a text informing Greg that he would be unavailable for the weekend, followed by a promise that he would call when he could. 

Greg gets a call from him on Monday afternoon. Mycroft yawns like someone suffering from jetlag, and apologizes in the careful, formal way that Greg knows is genuine. He's never known someone who could make an apology sound so matter of course. Not practiced but... expected. As if any inconvenience to a loved one should have been foreseen and avoided, as if Mycroft should be expected to manage every possible scenario without any effort from other people.

As if he deserves to bear the fallout, any anger or disappointment, and has already accepted responsibility. It makes something lurch in Greg's chest; makes him think before he speaks.

“It's fine,” Greg says, because it was. Greg's job doesn't always fit into working hours and Mycroft's job is about ten times less predictable. He understands that too well to be upset about it. “Nicer than catching the tube home.”

“I know you hoped to go to Hyde Park last weekend. Did you make it?”

Mycroft must be tired. He doesn't usually ask for confirmation. “Nah, had a quiet one. Spent a lot of time on the couch. Napped. Sounds like you could do with one.”

“Not possible, I'm afraid. At least not for the next two days.”

“And after that?”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft allows doubtfully. So, possible but highly unlikely.

“Maybe take next weekend to nap.”

“I assure you, Gregory, I will do my utmost to keep the weekend clear.” As if Mycroft can order the world to do as it should; as if sleep is nothing compared to keeping vague and informal plans with Greg.

Greg's always been a soft touch. When he was a constable, seasoned officers had said the job would knock that out of him but it never really did. He's still a sucker for kids and babies, and he likes animal videos on Facebook. He's soft about Mycroft too, the way Mycroft carries the weight of Britain on his shoulders and seems bewildered that anyone should notice or appreciate that fact. The way he'll keep promises, even if it means surviving on an hour's sleep to do so.

“Get some rest,” Greg says because standing in his office in the middle of the afternoon is not a comfortable time to say anything more. “We can reschedule if we need to.”

***

The same black Jag is waiting by the curb the next Friday. Again, there's no prior arrangement but the summer's day has turned to light drizzle, and Greg's more than happy to get a ride.

When he opens the back door, he finds Mycroft with his eyes closed and his head drooping. He's wearing a dark pinstripe suit with a grey tie, a three-piece of corporate armour. Even the pale blue pocket square looks precise and sharp. 

Mycroft opens his eyes the second Greg gets in. He blinks twice and then allows a small smile. “Good evening,” he says, formal as a period drama.

“It is now,” Greg replies. “Been waiting long?”

Mycroft shakes his head. To the casual observer, Mycroft Holmes might seem untouchable, unaffected by such mortal trivialities as sleep deprivation. But Greg knows where to look for the signs. It's in the pulled down corners of Mycroft's mouth, lips held tighter than normal; it's in the tension around his eyes, the deeper creases at the edges. The smoothness of the forehead, the way Mycroft won't bother to raise a questioning eyebrow. Small, subtle signs that he allows Greg to see.

“Rough week?” Greg reaches and cups Mycroft's cheek, rubs his thumb along the tension in Mycroft's temple. Mycroft's eyes close as he leans into Greg's hand.

“Certainly not one of my better ones.”

“How about I tuck you into bed and let you get some rest?”

“No,” Mycroft says firmly. The effect is somewhat spoiled by the way he only bothers to open one blue-grey eye to stare Greg down. “You were thinking of a picnic in Hyde Park this weekend and the weather will be ideal. There's a picnic hamper in my fridge.”

“Of course there is.” One flippant remark about picnic weather last week means that Mycroft has organised some fancy outing. Greg had said picnic, but he'd meant getting sandwiches at M&S and sitting on a park bench. Mycroft probably has a picnic blanket and champagne flutes.

Mycroft lifts his head up and Greg pulls his hand away. “We can do something else if you wish,” Mycroft says as if he hasn't got the perfect spot scouted and probably a hundred quid of fancy food in his fridge.

“Compromise. Early night tonight, late start tomorrow and we'll do something in the afternoon.”

Mycroft gives a small frown, so small it's almost a pout. “If you insist,” he says, fishing a small notebook from his right jacket pocket. His hand slides back in to find a small pen. It proves Greg's right: if Mycroft's too tired to rely on his own memory, he's in desperate need of sleep. “What time should I pick you up?”

Now Greg understands Mycroft's look of disappointment. “No point driving there and back again. I'll stay at your place.”

Mycroft tucks the notebook and pen away. He sits up straight and settles his shoulders back, forcing himself to wakefulness. Unnecessary, if you ask Greg. They'll be in the car for at least an hour. London traffic is always terrible but by six on a Friday, it's an unpredictable horror.

“C'mere,” Greg says, lifting an arm to wrap around Mycroft's shoulders. Mycroft tenses for a moment, holding his correct posture but a second tug and Mycroft follows, folding against Greg's side. He rests his head on Greg's shoulder, and after two slow breaths, Greg feels the weight of Mycroft's head as Mycroft truly relaxes.

Greg settles down in his seat, both arms loose around Mycroft, one hand on his side and the other curled around the soft skin at the back of his neck. They'll be stuck in traffic for at least an hour; he might as well close his eyes too.

***

Greg fixes them a simple dinner of grilled cheese sandwiches. It's not the healthiest choice, but quick and tasty overrule carb counts and fat levels. They're in bed shortly after that, and despite napping in the car -- for eighty-five minutes while London traffic gets worse every year -- it takes mere minutes for Mycroft to fall asleep.

Regardless of height or his ability to terrify reporters and politicians, Mycroft likes being the little spoon. Greg likes it too. Likes curling up against Mycroft's back with the nape of his neck in easy kissing distance; likes having an arm around Mycroft's chest and the way Mycroft will wrap a hand around his wrist to keep him there.

He likes the way Mycroft runs a bit cold, cool toes pressed to Greg's calves. He knows he shouldn't compare people, but he can't help remembering the ex, how she'd push him away in summer, couldn't bear the combined body heat. He much prefers Mycroft's cold feet and tendency to cuddle.

“Twelve days is too long,” Mycroft murmurs, sounding mostly asleep. Greg figures it's just the nonsense you say as you drift off, and then he realises twelve days ago was the Sunday before last. The last time he'd been in bed with Mycroft. Last time it was just them with the world shut away, safely silent, and the simple comfort of holding another warm body.

They talked on the phone and there were short text messages back and forth, but they've both been busy. He hasn't even seen Mycroft since that Sunday.

“Yeah,” Greg agrees, pressing a soft kiss to the edge of Mycroft's hairline. “Too long.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft replies but he's already drifting into sleep.

***

The third Friday, and the black car is waiting again. Greg rolls his eyes when he sees it and then fishes the car keys out of his pocket and holds them up, jingling them to hopefully get Mycroft's attention. The back window slides down an inch, so he shrugs and heads back inside.

After signing the car back in and handing the keys back, Greg comes outside and gets in the waiting car. “You don't have to pick me up every Friday,” he says, still feeling the sting of the Constable's smirk at his returned keys. Not like he knew he had a ride home.

“You dislike driving in Friday night traffic,” Mycroft replies as if the answer is obvious.

“So, what? You're offering to skive off work so I don't have to?”

“I'm hardly derelict in my duties,” Mycroft replies primly, chin rising at the insinuation.

Greg rubs his nose, hoping it hides his fond smile. There's something undeniably lovable about Mycroft at his most prim and proper. “You can't tell me knocking off at half five is your usual,” he says, but it still sounds fondly amused.

“I do have some scheduling control over my workload,” Mycroft replies. “And we're in traffic in comfort. I'm hardly cut off from all modern communication.”

“Yeah, but…” Greg shrugs, thinking. Thinking about what's really so bad here. He likes Mycroft's cars, comfortable in a way he thinks he should feel a little guilty about. He likes not having to drive. He likes the way Mycroft will go out of his way to make Greg's life a little more comfortable. Likes knowing that Mycroft's job may be ridiculously important and his brother might be ridiculously demanding, but given the choice of priorities, Greg's comfort is up there with the big ticket items. 

He doesn't like being surprised when he finds that black car parked illegally and waiting for him. That's his problem. “Is this a regular thing? Should I stop making other plans to get home on a Friday?”

Mycroft turns to face him and blinks once, twice, three times. “Let's make it the base assumption. You can text me if you have alternative plans.”

Greg wonders what made Mycroft blink. What unexpected scenario popped into existence and was reasoned away in those few milliseconds. “Listen, you and me...” Greg starts but he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

“Is there something that needs to be discussed?”

Greg shrugs. It’s hard to figure out the words while Mycroft’s watching him, cool and reserved.

Mycroft glances down at his lap, brushing an imaginary sliver of lint from his knee. “I can cancel the cars if you prefer.”

“No, not that,” Greg replies quickly. He knows how easily Mycroft can read a refusal within a moment’s hesitation. “Don’t cancel the cars. It’s just… Kind of domestic, isn’t it? Being picked up at the end of the work week?”

Mycroft interlaces his long fingers, resting them on his lap before slanting a sideways look at Greg. It’s Mycroft Holmes all over: graceful, self-contained and only mildly curious about the world around him. “Go on.”

“It’s nice, that’s all.” But Greg knows it’s more than that. It’s like Saturdays nights spent watching movies at Mycroft’s place, or lazy Sundays sitting around the warm glow of the fireplace, reading the paper as Mycroft reads on his tablet. It’s those occasional Monday mornings, trading places in the bathroom and making coffee while the other gets dressed. It’s those little moments that make Greg think this could be long-term. That he wants all this and more, wants it to be permanent and steady and maybe even taken for granted.

But a few months in is far too early for big declarations. Greg's willing to wait to do this right. Make it last.

Mycroft’s eyes are glittering and sharp. “Nice?”

“What’s wrong with nice?”

“Practical or convenient would be more apt descriptions,” Mycroft replies archly. He lets a small smile show. A little amused, a little smug.

“What?”

Mycroft gives a single shake of his head. “Nothing that needs to be discussed now,” he says warmly like Greg's not the only one considering future plans. He rests a hand on Greg's knee, and Greg reaches down to cover it with his own.

One Friday night at a time, Greg thinks. They'll get there one Friday night at a time.


End file.
